


Phantom Letters

by RosemaryLuina



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Adventures, Angst, Bromance, Combination of ALW + Kay + Leroux, Dark Character, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangle, Mystery, Post-Canon, Retelling, Romance, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:53:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8617690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosemaryLuina/pseuds/RosemaryLuina
Summary: Many years have passed since the scorpion was turned. Erik didn't die, but decided to travel and search for disfigured geniuses, who could become his successors. Marguerite Firmin is to find out if there's more than one Phantom lurking beneath the Opera House... A lot of OC. Mainly based on the book, with elements from the musical. Rated M for later chapters.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This novel is originally written in Russian, but the authors are trying to translate it slowly. Our writing style is anything but simple, so there might some mistakes, and I really hope the readers would help out by bringing it up. There's a lot of characters, most of them are based on specific ALW musical performers, so if you think someone reminds you of Hugh Panaro, or Earl Carpenter, or Ramin Karimloo - you're probably right! Try to figure them out!

**PROLOGUE**

 

The morning mist was so thick, that it made the bridge visible only ten steps ahead. A strange phenomenon in Paris, especially in September. But it was a rainy year,  and the morning was quite chilly, which was more common for November. It seemed that this winter could be long.

Five o'clock in the morning, and not a living soul on the streets. Within an hour, the usual pandemonium that is so natural for the city center, will be spread over here like a wind. Carriages, people hastily heading to their business, street vendors … why, oh why does it always have to happen in this quarter?

They had to do everything quickly to avoid panic among passing people. There were a dozen police officers standing around, willing to stop whoever tried to pass on the Scribe street.

It wasn’t the water that made pavement so slippery that day.

It still remained a mystery, what madman could have done violence like this… and was he really mad? The person who left the message for the police of Paris was well aware of his deeds. Perhaps he even knew a lot about human anatomy. How else he could pump out all blood from the body to the last drop?

“Inspector!” a young officer shouted. “Inspector  Quaste!  It’s time to leave!”

A man in his fifties, with a deeply concentrated face and white whiskers, rose from his knees. His assistant was right; they wouldn’t find any more clues, and the sun is rising. It was better to wash the blood off as soon as possible.

The victim was lying in a few steps from the largest pool of blood. It seemed that the killer, after finishing his repulsive deeds, dragged the woman down the street, holding her by the throat and leaving a bloody plume behind. And then he dropped her.

The woman’s body has already stiffened. She was killed about two o'clock in the morning, right in time for the guard change. She was found just an hour ago.

In morning light the blood stains, that lay on the skin, appeared bluish black, like ink. Another spot covered the hair. As usual, it was blond. Another distinctive sign, if not to say, the killer’s signature. He only killed blondes so far. Any blonde, from the white-haired albinos to the owners of honey-like curls. But the age was different. Two weeks ago they found a very young one, while this lady was already touched with aging. Her face wasn’t beautiful at all.

The victim’s occupation wasn’t hard to guess. The elusive killer wielded only at night, and he rarely assaulted decent women. If Quaste only could - he would have issued a decree under which the prostitutes were forbidden to seek customers in the Opera district at night. But that was beyond his power.

Inspector was tired of this case. It started about one and a half year ago. Sometimes murders stopped for a few months, but the culprit remained elusive. Quaste was the best in his department, which is why he was assigned to the investigation, but even he could not find any clues.

“Inspector?” the assistant called again.

“Yes, yes,” Quaste answered, dryly.

The body was loaded on the stretcher now. That is pointless, Quaste wanted to say. Physicians won’t find anything, none of the evidence. But that was the part of the protocol.

“He has been waiting for you,” the young officer said.

Well, of course, Quaste thought, he always comes right in time.

The inspector turned. His assistant barely concealed his fear, his eyes pointing at the narrow passage between buildings. There, in the dim light, was a bright spot; a white mask.

Quaste nodded slowly, as if saying something only two of them could know, and the mask disappeared into the darkness.

  
The sun finally rose, and the blood on the pavement became much brighter.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER I**

_To Marguerite Firmin_

_(Paris, Rue Auber)_

_Dear cousin,_

_I haven’t sent you any letters for two months, but that’s how it turned out. Music lessons took up all my time, but I greatly succeeded in all my studies. You are soon to discover it! Yes, sweetest Marguerite, we are going to meet soon and talk until we’re tired, for the first time in years. I am writing to you for one simple reason, which, I hope, won’t make you too sad._

_About an hour ago I received a letter from my mother here, in academy. She says that yesterday our Uncle Firmin died in my parent’s house, where he spent the last couple of months. God knows, my mother thought that he was recovering thanks to the fresh air and calmness, but she was wrong … it is a huge shock for all of us. Perhaps you noticed a few watery streaks on the paper. Sorry, but when I recall this letter, I can’t help but cry again._

_Remember how uncle Firmin drove us to the Opera Garnier, when we were just small girls? We were so impressed by this crown of Parisian architecture! How long have we glanced at the figures of angels and demons, and how fast we were running up and down the broad staircase, not afraid to fall… and what a  great fun we had on New Year’s Masquerade! I still recall those bizarre masks, colorful dresses and suits, a grand fireworks display!  We stayed up all night, sitting on our beds, sharing impressions, and then wept bitterly when it was time to go home. You must remember all these wonderful moments!_

_What a blow for me was the news of our uncle’s death! The first few minutes I could not recover and finish reading the letter. I lost my mind._

_It turned out, my dear Marguerite, that after the death of his co-owner of the Opera House, Monsieur Andre, Uncle Firmin prepared a new testament, in which he declared that the only heirs of the Grand Opera after his death, are us._

_You know that uncle wasn’t married. He treated us as his own children, and I cannot convey to you, how scared and at the same time pleased I was with his will._

_We, who once marveled at the beauty of the Opera being just little girls, now become it’s owners! Not our parents, not our father, but us._

_That is why, my dear sister, tomorrow I leave for Paris. Hopefully we can meet and discuss the inheritance. Before that, of course, we will have a formal meeting with the notary. I admit that we take on a huge responsibility, it all must be carefully weighed. But I beg you; do not mourn for uncle, better pray for him. On this I finish my letter, kissing you and your mother._

_Goodbye and see you soon,_

_Caroline De’ Blois_  

_P.S._

_In the last letter, you said you are about to woo monsieur Carnee! But there were no details. Your wedding has already taken place? To be honest, I’m a little jealous that my younger (though only for two years) sister has married before me…_

_Marseille, 12 September 1887_

 

Marguerite quietly put the letter at the dressing table. Caroline asked her not to mourn, but her heart felt very heavy. It was harder than Marguerite had imagined. She barely restrained herself from crying, because she did not want to disturb the peace of her mother’s mind.

 _“She’s all on pins and needles,”_ Marguerite thought, curling up into a ball on the couch and closing her watery eyes. _“Since the wedding was canceled.”_

The atmosphere of happy preparations still lived in their house. Friends from different parts of France still sent them postcards with congratulations, and the crystal vase with beautiful roses brought by monsieur Carnee three days ago still bloomed in the living room.

Her mother still could not bring herself to touch the festive charlotte, as if her daughter could change her mind in the last minute. Marguerite had no courage to tell her that all the prepared dishes were a waste. Mother wouldn’t understand.

Madame Firmin enjoyed engagement even more than her daughter did. She composed the guest list and sent out the invitation cards with a great enthusiasm. She altered her old wedding dress, so it could match the new fashion, and worked in the kitchen. In a word, she did not allow Marguerite to lift a finger, which irritated the bride.

Madame Firmin has done everything to make this wedding the triumph of the century. She even invited one of the main soloists of the Opera, an old friend of now deceased monsieur Firmin, so the soprano could sing something from her repertoire at the wedding feast.  

And now daughter ruined everything. Not that Margaret did not feel anything for Monsieur Carne, but she had an eerie feeling that marriage without love would be a torture. She was fluttered with the dream of romantic love and so on, which wasn’t in her relationship with Carne. In one beautiful moment, those dreams burst out, and Marguerite admitted that she did not want to marry.

This happened immediately after her fiancée kissed her under the yew tree in the garden. Monsieur Carne decided that she was joking. Or that she said it in a bad mood. Or any other reason, purely feminine, of course.

But Marguerite wasn’t kidding. She returned the ring with an apology. Later, of course, she had her doubts and regrets about the refusal. First of all, because of pressure from the mother, who took the news about the cancellation of engagement as her personal tragedy.

Marguerite tried to remind herself that she felt absolutely nothing when Carnee kissed her. Wasn’t that a sign?

She kept all misery inside and never shed a tear about the lost happiness and prosperity. But today, the tears streamed down, though not for the torn wedding.

“Mother!” she called, wiping salty drops from her cheeks.

The door opened a little, but the face Marguerite saw was not her mother’s. It was her faithful servant Sophie.

“Your mother fell asleep, Mademoiselle. How can I help you?”

The maid immediately saw that Marguerite was weeping and was stunned into awkward silence.

“My uncle died,” Marguerite explained. “And cousin Caroline is heading to Paris. It is not necessary for you to wake my mother, dear Sophie, but you should prepare the guest room.”

The maid softly moaned. “Ah, poor Monsieur Firmin, he wasn’t that old. And he had so little gray hair,” she murmured.

When they were children, Marguerite and Caroline met about twice a year and always spent time with their uncle. His company had always brought them great joy. They loved his apartment, and the weekends spent at the Opera House, among the fragile dancers and chorus girls. Caroline constantly tried to repeat moves after dancers, and uncle laughed at her clumsiness. He had a great laughter, and a  bright, radiant light that fully reflected in his kind blue eyes. Marguerite remembered Uncle Firmin better than her own father, but now his face began to fade in her memories.

In the winter of 1876, she saw him and Caroline for the last time. Marguerite could only guess at what changes have occurred to her cousin over the years. At the insistence of her mother, Marguerite lived and studied at the Monastery since she turned eleven, and when her time there was over, she continued to educate spiritually at home, read books, and embroider.

Caroline, on the other hand, lived in Marseilles, and all her education was drawn from hide-and-seek, fights with the neighborhood boys, climbing trees, and other nonsense. She spent a lot of time at the pier, mostly lounging, and only three years ago she was brought into Marseille’s Academy of Music, where, as she swears, they made her a little angel, that could delight the most capricious audience with her voice.

Really, Caroline’s confidence in her was rather frightening at times, and Marguerite had no idea what could be said between them after such a long parting. At least, they won’t talk about monsieur Carnee. At all.

 _“Oh no!”_ Marguerite assured herself. _“We’ll talk about Opera and come to some agreement. We’ll recall our childhood and love each other just as we did before.”_

Rising from the coach, she followed the maid to observe the cleaning. Everything had to be perfect.

*   *   *

Caroline, dressed in a light dress under a silk cape, went to Paris in a terribly shaking carriage, accompanied by her elder brother. She wanted to go alone, but her parents insisted on a companion.

Unmarried girls were never permitted to travel unless they were escorted either by watchful brother or strict governess. Caroline had long grown out of governess presence, so she had no choice but to bring along Simon, who was twenty-two years old. He recently returned from England, where he spent a year studying confectionery in a college.

If Caroline spoke frankly, she would tell her parents that in Paris she wanted to rest from their constant pressure. But then this trip most likely would have been cancelled. But as it turned out, the presence of her brother did not hurt much. Simon was quiet most of the time. Caroline could not tell if he fell asleep or just meditated with his eyes closed.

Like any other sister, she expressed genuine proud for her courageous brother, just as he was proud of her blooming beauty. Caroline constantly thought, that if her brother decided to become a priest, his church would be full of young enamoured parishioners. Sadly, her brother studied religion only as an optional subject.

 _"Our confectioner,”_ she thought joyfully, looking at his serene face. _“It is necessary to watch out for him. There’s so many pretty girls here, in Paris. He’ll be caught in someone’s love snare before he knows it."_

When the cart stopped, Simon woke up. Caroline met his gaze with a gentle smile, which showed no trace of fatigue. She was full of energy. Simon stretched, and a little crease appeared on his forehead.  

“Are we there yet?” he asked, still sleepy. Calm, friendly, albeit a little haggard expression altered his face. He slowly turned to look at the scenery outside the carriage window.

“Almost” she nodded. “Paris is undoubtedly one of the most stunning places in France”.

Simon paused, thinking about something, and then agreed with her words, though he also added that London was even more beautiful.

“But tell me about Marguerite” he said. “I remember her as a little girl”.

“I am afraid that’s all I can remember as well. When we last saw each other, we both were so plain. But time is favorable to girls, Simon”.

“Only for some time” her brother smiled. “Twenty years later you will no longer think that”.

Caroline snorted and rolled her eyes. They fell silent. Simon looked up involuntarily, as he always did when the conversation came to the dead end.

Fortunately, at this moment, the driver alerted the couple that they finally arrived. Caroline skeptically glanced over the house in front of which the carriage stopped. Her thought hung in the air and was picked up by Simon.

They did not think that the Firmin family lived in such modesty. The house stood on a wide street with pear trees, surrounded by real palaces, and completely lost in their shadow. Caroline was ashamed that her relatives put up with such a vulgar, boring housing.

“Doesn’t that place seems…”

“Very nice” Simon replied cautiously. “Remember, my dear, that we are guests”.

“Don’t worry, I am well acquainted with the manners. But agree, the house is just awful!”

“Hush, Caroline”

Marguerite already noticed the approaching carriage, standing by the window. Soon the door opened in front of guests and their cousin smiled excitedly. She wore a simple dark blue dress, her hair tied with a black ribbon, all in the sign of mourning.

Caroline flapped her eyelashes and climbed the stairs, majestic, as usual, and Margo kissed her on both cheeks.

“My lovely sister!” Caroline laughed. “I'm happy to see you in a good health. You're really prettier than I recall. But you should know it yourself. Oh, I brought a wedding gift. Simon, would you please ...”

Marguerite gestured for her to stop and not to guiltily explained:

“There’s no need for any gifts, Caroline. I'm not getting married”

“Oh” Caroline managed to say significantly. “But why?”

Marguerite noticed a nice young man standing next to her sister. He wasn’t tall, although she was much shorter, and he had chubby cheeks. He definitely wasn’t a lady-killer or a book hero, but he evoked sympathy at the first sight. His gray eyes shone with kindness and reliability.

Marguerite gasped.

“You did not warn me ... you didn’t told me that you are taking someone with you,” she murmured, giving Caroline a dismayed look “We prepared just one bedroom. More precisely, we _only_ have one guest room. I'm so sorry...”

Simon finally smiled. He went up the stairs and stopped at one level below his two cousins. In truth, Simon was much more surprised and confused than the young mistress. Instead of rather clumsy little girl, he saw a young lady with a charming petite figure and large, attentive eyes.

“Let me introduce myself, mademoiselle,”  he said, bowing. Marguerite noted that he had a certain grace and his voice was pleasant.  “I am Simon Leroux”

“Are you?" There was disbelieving in Marguerite’s voice. “I remember you very ... different. Forgive me for not recognizing you”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, mademoiselle” Simon smiled again.  “I would not have recognized you either”

“Are you also intend to run the Opera House, monsieur Leroux?” Marguerite asked then.

“Oh, no, thank you!” Simon shook his head. “I only came to accompany Caroline, nothing more. I'm much closer to the confectionery business ... However, my father wants me to be enlisted in the army ... But it seems to me that I wasn’t made for war”

Marguerite gave him a careful look again. Indeed, Simon created the impression of the most peaceful person. Such people are rarely fighting and dying on the battlefield. The mistress apologized for the absence of a suitable room for Simon again, but her cousin meekly shrugged.

“Do not worry. I can stay at the hotel”

“But that’s very expensive, Marguerite said. “No, no, it’s better if I would share my room with Caroline, and you will take the guest one. Would you like it?”

“Absolutely”

And that’s what they decided. Caroline happily clung to her sister, and they went into the hall together. Caroline was chirping like a bird. She could speak on all topics, jumping from one to another, and in the end completely confusing the interlocutor, although everything she said was very interesting and smart.

Marguerite had to leave her for a moment to show Simon his bedroom. The young man thanked her warmly for the hospitality and asked if he could rest after the long journey. Sisters spent the rest of the day together. In time for dinner they were joined by Madame Firmin.

She questioned Caroline about her study in the music academy so willingly that Margarita unwittingly envied their easy communication. Most of all she was afraid that Caroline will bring the dangerous subject of marriage again. If Margo could consign the story of her and Monsieur Carne to oblivion, she would have most certainly destroyed every thought, every memory.

While her mother preferred to complain on each occasion. She sincerely believed that the number of those who heard her tragedy and imbued with it could harmonize her mental balance.

“Of course, you must know” Madame Firmin started confidentially. “What a wonderful admirer Marguerite acquired a few months ago”

“Oh, yes,” Caroline snapped her fingers. “I forgot about the wedding gift. I wonder where we put it, Simon...”

Marguerite sighed.

“I have already said that I am not getting married. We decided to stay as good friends, monsieur Carne and I”.

“In a terrible circumstances” Madame Firmin admitted, taking a handkerchief from her corsage and gently pressing it to her eyes. “Oh, Caroline. Never before our family had to deal with such humiliation. After all, Carne had not even forced her to return gifts, but Marguerite laid it all back into wrappings - even the most beautiful necklace, a gift from the very beginning of the courting. She sent all these things to his home address. Nasty. Tell me, would you do the same in her place?”

Caroline moved her lips thoughtfully, unable to find a suitable answer, but Madame Firmin didn’t actually needed one. She sighed and continued her melancholy outpourings, waving her thin arms from time to time.

“I'm trying to explain Marguerite that she is foolish. What a mad thing to do! And she knows, men are not attracted to the obstinate, they sidestep abandoned and trampled women!”

“I'm not the nasty, mother” Margo whispered, lowering her head. She felt like the huge thunder cloud hung right above her. It was the most horrid feeling she ever had.

Caroline stared at her sister, and then gently and naturally shifted the subject, starting to ask whether Paris was always so cold.

Later Marguerite realized that this maneuver was not a fluke. When she find out about the resourcefulness of her sister, for the first time in a day she thought that they might really come to understand each other. And maybe they could become really great managers together.

"After all, the art is so wonderful!" Marguerite thought enthusiastically, helping the maid to clear the table after the meal. With the same thought, she went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review the chapter, please. We are eager to know your thoughts. Even one review makes the routine of translation much easier.


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